


Of Stupidity and Staircases

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Cursed Child compliant, F/M, Fluff, Hogwarts AU, Hogwarts next generation, Jealous Bellamy, Jealous Clarke, Just your usual Hogwarts shenanigans, but with t100 characters obviously, fluffiest fluff, the castle is sentient now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Hogwarts AU. Bellarke with cameos from a few Hogwarts next gen characters. Bellamy is an arrogant Gryffindor who keeps having accidents, Clarke is an ambitious Slytherin who wants to be a healer, and the castle itself is conspiring to bring them together.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 26
Kudos: 174





	Of Stupidity and Staircases

**Author's Note:**

> So... uhh... I won a thing! Or... a couple of things! So many thanks to the folks who voted in the BFWA. I'm a little overexcited and incoherent, so I thought I'd post an unbetaed Hogwarts AU... What could possibly go wrong?

Clarke thinks Hogwarts is stupid.

Not the _school_ , obviously. She loves school – she didn't become a prefect by accident. But the castle itself. The building. She just thinks it's incredibly foolish, to have a school with shifting staircases and transforming rooms. It's not a practical design for an educational establishment, and she's all about the practicalities.

The most exasperating thing of all? The Gryffindors who seem to think that the changing layout is all great fun. She is sick to death of watching them leap from one moving staircase to another. Don't they realise they might get hurt? It makes the aspiring healer in her wince every time she sees someone try to jump a gap.

Unless it's Bellamy Blake, of course. She's always secretly gleeful when he puts himself in idiotic danger, always hoping he'll slip and have an accident. Only a _minor_ one of course – she is an aspiring healer, she doesn't actually want him to be seriously hurt. She just thinks it might do him good to break his stupid nose and have his annoying good looks dimmed a little.

Or at least, she thinks that until it actually happens.

She's just walking up the stairs, minding her own business. And suddenly Bellamy is flying in front of her, falling into a crumpled heap, bleeding heavily from his right arm.

She dashes to help him. Obviously she does. That's the future healer in her – and it turns out Bellamy bleeds just the same as anyone else, when push comes to shove.

"Bellamy? Let me see that arm." She takes charge quickly, reaching for the offending limb, tearing her school jumper off and pressing it to the wound.

He looks absolutely shocked. " _Princess_? What are you doing?"

She doesn't answer that. She thinks it's pretty obvious what she's doing. She quickly sets about doing a selection of healing spells she's learned from her mother and from observing Madame Pomfrey – one to clean the wound, another to close it, and a last one to ensure a quick recovery. That's her mother's speciality, that one. And while she's at it, she looks around, tries to make sense of what happened. There – he must have caught his arm on the sharp edge of that stair rail. How silly, to have a sharp piece of metal jutting out like that. It's almost like it was put there specifically to cause an accident, she thinks.

Hogwarts really is stupid.

"All good." She says briskly, when she's done.

Bellamy is still staring at her in a rather concussed sort of a way. Did he hit his head, too?

"Princess. Clarke. Why – why are you helping me?"

She snorts. "I won't be much use as a healer if I refuse to help anyone I don't get on with, will I?"

He gives a grudging laugh. "Not very Slytherin of you though." He accuses.

She bristles. "Slytherins can be kind. Are you saying the Head Boy wouldn't stop and help you if you fell?" Scorpius Malfoy is literally the kindest person she's ever met, and gives a good name to Slytherins everywhere, in Clarke's opinion.

"Point taken. There we go, then – one and a half kind Slytherins."

With that, he ups and leaves before she can protest his comment. But maybe she wouldn't have protested anyway, she thinks. Coming from Bellamy, his implication that she counts as half a kind Slytherin is probably the closest to a thank you she's going to get.

…...

The following day Bellamy is jumping between staircases again, surrounded by a gaggle of Weasleys. Clarke really does think this daredevil jumping is a most unfortunate fashion. They never did this in her parents' time at school. And she thinks, too, that with such irresponsible behaviour Bellamy is the most foolish choice of prefect imaginable.

She's only grateful she's never yet been paired with him for rounds. But it's only the first term of fifth year, she supposes. They have more than enough time to be stuck with each other yet.

It's a mixture of exasperation and concern, along with a fair dose of self-righteousness, that makes her approach the Gryffindor group.

"Bellamy. You shouldn't be jumping at least until your arm is stronger. You won't be able to balance the same."

He smirks at her, hands on hips, strutting over to meet her. "Don't know if you've noticed, Princess. But we have _magic_ round here. My arm's all fixed."

She bristles, annoyed. Clearly he hasn't told his friends it was her who fixed him. And she wonders about adding something else – some detailed explanation of the rate of magical healing, that although the wound is closed it will be some time before he fully recovers.

No. It's not worth it. He'll only tell her she's a nerd for being so into that medical stuff, or laugh at her, or snort in derision.

She turns away, and leaves him to his foolishness.

…...

Two days later she's on her way to Transfiguration when Bellamy leaps from the landing above her, and stumbles awkwardly on landing.

She freezes, wonders about reversing straight back down the stairs. She hasn't forgotten his confrontational ingratitude of yesterday. But she really does want to get to Transfiguration on time. She needs top marks in her OWLs, if she's to become a healer.

To her confusion, he heads down the stairs towards her. That seems odd. He has Transfiguration too – they're in the same class.

"Funny, that – turns out I can't balance the same while my arm's still healing." He says lightly.

"That's what I said when you -"

"I know, Princess. I'm admitting you're right. Don't expect it to happen again any time soon."

With that, he turns and leads the way to class. She's still blinking in confusion by the time she arrives, still mulling over his words when she tries to turn her pigeon into a pie dish.

She gets as far as a sort of ceramic table ornament and gives today up as a bad job.

…...

Clarke likes observing in the hospital wing. It's good experience for her future career, but she genuinely enjoys it in its own right. She gets to know and take care of the younger students, which is part of the prefect role she enjoys. And sometimes Madame Pomfrey even allows her to help with the most basic spells.

It's usually quiet when she comes here in an evening. Most accidents happen during the more dangerous lessons, or when students are letting off steam at weekends. So this is set to be a nice calm Thursday night, she figures.

She's wrong.

She's been there scarcely half an hour when Rose Granger-Weasley herself, the Head Girl Clarke rather admires, bustles in levitating a motionless body towards her.

"Blake's had an accident." She says briskly, still walking. "Where do you want him?"

Clarke starts, looks closer at the body. Sure enough, that is Bellamy, and he's lying awfully still. Her heart starts beating erratically in her chest. Has she caused this? Has wishing ill fortune on him all these years finally come to a head?

"Over here." Madame Pomfrey gestures calmly to a vacant bed. "What happened to him, Rose?"

"Quidditch training. It was the stupidest thing – a gargoyle fell on him. Can you believe that? He went to fetch a rogue Bludger that was heading for the north tower and a gargoyle actually went and _fell on him_."

"No. That can't happen." Clarke says, shaking her head. "Gargoyles don't just fall off of buildings. What -"

"Apparently they do." Madame Pomfrey says, tone quelling. "Let's get to work. Thank you, Rose."

They work quickly. Clarke is allowed to deal with the minor abrasions on Bellamy's arms and torso while Madame Pomfrey deals with the more major damage – broken bones and the like. It's an odd experience, Clarke decides, healing Bellamy while he's lying so still like this. His brown skin looks unusually pale, the freckles standing out more than normal. And as she deals with a cut on his cheekbone, she observes that he's not smirking which, frankly, is just _weird_.

By the time she's finished, it's past the time she would usually leave the hospital wing and go to do her homework.

"Get on your way, dear." Madame Pomfrey encourages her. "I'm about done here. He'll have a nasty night with the Skelegrow, but apart from that we're finished."

Clarke hesitates. She pauses, frowning at the boy in the bed. And then she steels her courage.

"He'll need observing all night, won't he?" She asks softly.

"More or less. I'll doze here so I can hear if he needs anything." Madame Pomfrey says lightly.

"Let me take a turn first. You've been at work all day. Go get some real sleep and come back in a couple of hours." She may be a prefect, but she's still not used to making tactical suggestions to a teacher.

Madame Pomfrey's face softens a little. "Friend of yours, isn't he? Fair enough. You stay here a couple of hours. I'll just be the other side of that door."

Clarke doesn't correct her misunderstanding. She just wants the overworked school healer to get some rest. That's all that's going on here.

She watches Madame Pomfrey give Bellamy his Skelegrow, then settles into the chair at his side.

She observes carefully as he breathes, chest rising and falling, skin slowly regaining some of its usual colour. He starts fidgeting a little, about an hour in. That must be the pain of the Skelegrow working, she figures. There's nothing to be done about that – all she can do is watch and hope he gets through it soon.

She stays past midnight, in the end. Bellamy doesn't wake up, which is good. She's not sure how on Earth she'd explain her presence if he did.

…...

She doesn't usually observe in the hospital wing on Fridays. But she didn't get chance to ask Madame Pomfrey an important question about Dragon Pox last night, amid all the fuss with Bellamy's injuries. That's why she goes back there tonight, she tells herself.

She walks right in as if she owns the place. Acting confident often helps her to _feel_ confident, she has found.

"Clarke." She hears Bellamy's voice calling her name the moment she opens the door. And that's odd, really – he rarely calls her by her actual name.

"Oh. Hey, Bellamy." She says, as if surprised to see him. "How are you doing?"

"Much better." He nods, jaw tight. "Thank you. Madame Pomfrey told me how much you helped out last night. I – Thanks."

"Any time. It's what I do."

He smirks a little. "Really? Because the story I heard was that you begged to be allowed to stay by my bedside because I'm your _particular friend_."

She flushes, mumbles something about _blatant exaggeration_.

"Why are you here today anyway? You don't volunteer on Fridays." Bellamy says sharply.

Then he catches himself. Then he realises he's just admitted he knows her schedule. Clarke can see it in his eyes – the way they grow wide, and his jaw clamps even tighter shut.

"Last I checked, you don't get crushed by gargoyles on Thursdays. Later, Blake." Proud of her parting shot, she turns and heads back out the door.

It's not until she's half way down the corridor that she realises she never did ask that question about Dragon Pox. And now Bellamy's going to think she was only there to check on him, when really -

Really that's the truth, and probably the world won't end if she admits it.

…...

Clarke makes a fuss of him, in the days following his release from the hospital wing – or at least as much of a fuss as one can make of an insufferable arrogant ass. She discreetly looks across the hall to check he's eating plenty of breakfast, mutters to their Potions professor that Bellamy had better sit this one out, because Wolfsbane vapour can interfere with Skelegrow.

She thinks she's getting away with it, until Bellamy corners her after a prefects meeting one evening.

"Here." He thrusts a crumpled piece of parchment towards her.

She takes it, puzzled. What is this? She can see half a dozen headings in messy capitals, a few notes that seem to be about goblins.

"What's this?" She asks, more confused than annoyed.

"My plan for the History of Magic essay. Figured I owed you a favour."

She's utterly incapable of speech for a good three seconds. She hates History of Magic – that's no secret. She's counting down the days until OWLs are over and she can drop it, keeping only things like Potions and Transfiguration which suit her skill set better. And meanwhile it's Bellamy's best subject, which makes this a strangely thoughtful and almost _touching_ gesture of thanks.

When at last she finds her voice, she does not choose her words as carefully as she perhaps ought.

"Thanks. You're a lifesaver." She tells him, squirrelling the precious plan away in her satchel.

He laughs. "No, Princess. _You_ are. Horrendous Quidditch accident? Spending the night at my bedside? That ringing any bells?"

She laughs in turn. They've never really laughed together before, and it's nice. Huh. She didn't see that one coming.

"Cheers, Bellamy. I'll keep patching you up if you'll help me through History of Magic."

"Deal." He grins at her, then slips from the room.

She hangs around longer than she really ought to. Only because she doesn't want to end up awkwardly walking down the hallway with him, she tells herself. It's totally not because she's waiting for her blush to die down.

…...

She should have known their tentative truce wouldn't last. She totally loses her temper with him only three days later.

It's just such a _Gryffindor_ accident. He's jumping from moving staircases, _again_. He falls and hurts himself, _again_. Do these daredevils never learn?

Only this time, she's sandwiched beneath him as he falls.

"Bellamy. I swear to -"

"Sorry." He interrupts her firmly. "I'm sorry, Clarke. Here, let me -"

He cuts himself off in a hiss of pain. He's trying to get up, but it seems his wrist won't hold him. Clarke sort of lies there, squished beneath him, somewhere between exasperated and enjoying the warmth of him above her much more than she should.

Yeah. She can kind of see why he's so popular. His body feels hard and strong against her, but also kind of warm and gentle, and he's -

He's hurt his wrist, and she ought to be concentrating on that.

"Have you tried using the other hand to help you up?" She asks drily.

He tries for a laugh, but it comes out pained. He does, however, make it into a kneeling position at last. She sits at his side, makes short work of fixing his wrist.

And then she really lets him have it.

"What the hell were you thinking, Bellamy? Are you never going to learn your lesson? This jumping between moving staircases – it's _stupid_. It's really dangerous. How many minor injuries will it take before you realise you could hurt yourself more seriously? Why can't you just _quit_ this – this – ridiculous _hobby_?"

"I didn't realise you cared." He says, smirking lightly.

"I'm just sick of patching you up." She grumbles, trying not to think too hard about the fact that yes, actually, she _does_ care whether he breaks his neck.

"I wasn't planning to jump this one." He says conversationally. "I was actually about to go the long way round. But then I saw you here and changed my mind."

She gulps. "You jumped over here to talk to _me_?" That's an interesting development.

"More to give you this. Another essay plan." He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a crumpled parchment.

She sighs, exasperated, and somehow _fonder_ than she was expecting. "Please don't hurt yourself bringing me essay plans. You could have waited to give it to me in Transfiguration."

"But where would be the fun in that, Princess?"

Conversation concluded, he gets to his feet. And she expects that to be it – he will now go on his way, presumably, a polite couple of yards in front of her even though they're heading to the same place.

Only that's not how it turns out. When he's standing, he reaches a hand down to help her up. And then he walks to Transfiguration at her side, telling her a great deal of dull facts about the goblin rebellions.

She doesn't care about the goblin rebellions, of course. But it's kind of Bellamy to try to help her through History of Magic, so she does her best to listen.

…...

He stops jumping, after that. Or at least, he stops jumping where she can see him. She suspects he still participates in the occasional bit of Gryffindor foolishness with those Weasleys, but he at least has the good courtesy not to rub his audacity in her face.

Damn him. Damn his stupidly good looking face and this stupidly dangerous school.

He doesn't stop taking her by surprise, though. He keeps popping up with History of Magic notes, or nodding at her in greeting at prefects meetings or even, on one memorable occasion, smirking at her across the great hall.

He often bumps into her on moving staircases, too. But these days he steps neatly from one to the other, rather than leaping through the air and knocking her to the ground. She thinks it's interesting, really, how often they come across each other around the place. Sure, they're in the same year and share a lot of classes. But they're in different houses, different social circles for the most part. And they really do seem to bump into each other on staircases a hell of a lot more often than Clarke thinks can be explained by pure coincidence.

Right now, for example, his staircase glides smoothly over to meet the landing she is walking along. It's the third time that's happened today. Surely that's abnormal? Surely that's more than chance?

"Just can't stay away from me, can you?" Bellamy teases as he bounds up the last couple of steps.

She sighs, mock exasperated. Really she's strangely flattered that he even noticed they keep meeting like this. "I was trying to walk to the library in peace." She tells him.

"Me too." He says easily, falling into step beside her.

She falters. This isn't a thing that happens. He doesn't just casually start walking to the library with her, without so much as a passing barb. As if they're _friends_.

"Clarke?" He turns to look at her, frowning. "You OK? Are we heading to the library or not?"

Right. Yes. Library. She tries to act natural, walks by his side. She fishes desperately for some convenient and normal topic of conversation, because there's no way she's going to last this entire journey in awkward silence.

"How's Quidditch?" She asks him, then curses herself for the banality of her question.

He smirks lightly. "Not bad. Haven't been crushed by any gargoyles for over a month now."

She doesn't laugh. She's not ready to laugh about it yet. That was a serious accident. But if she's not going to laugh, then she's kind of floundering. She doesn't know what else to say about Quidditch.

"Are you looking forward to being captain next year?" She asks him determinedly.

He slants a look at her. "I'm not counting on that until I've got the badge."

"It'll be you." She says firmly. "Everyone knows it. You're the obvious choice."

"Thanks, Clarke." His voice sounds funny, she thinks.

Maybe that's what makes her panic and try to row back a little. "I wasn't just saying it to flatter you. I just – it's the truth, isn't it? Everyone says how great you are. Practically ready to turn pro tomorrow, from what I hear."

He snorts. "I'll take the compliment, but I don't plan on becoming a professional beater."

"No? What do you plan to do?" She doesn't pause to notice that such a question takes them dangerously close to _genuine friendship_ territory. She has always been a curious young woman, and right now she finds herself genuinely wondering what a Gryffindor ass who might just have a well-hidden heart of gold wants to do with his life.

"I'm hoping for something in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. When I was a kid, before I found out I was a wizard, I really wanted to be a lawyer. I had all these ideas about fighting for justice, I guess. And that's kind of similar for a wizarding career, right?"

"You'd make a good Auror." She says without thinking.

"You think so?"

"Yeah. You say you want a career in justice, but I think that would suit your personality too. All that bravery and getting stuck in without stopping to worry about the danger."

"You mean I'm an impulsive idiot and you're fed up of piecing me back together." He concludes, laughing.

"I didn't say that."

"No. You were being kind." He turns, looks her right in the eye as they walk. Clarke trips slightly on a piece of uneven paving, and he shoots an arm out to steady her. "That's why you're going to be a great healer, Clarke. I know I take the piss out of how Slytherin you are. But Slytherins can be kind too, it turns out."

She flushes, feels her cheeks heat. She can feel his hand warm on her arm, can feel her face warm under his stare, can feel warmth -

They're at the library. He drops his hand, leads the way through the door.

"You coming, Princess?" He throws over his shoulder as he goes.

She shakes herself. She can't afford to let him get to her like that. He's Bellamy Blake. Just because he's good looking and occasionally sweet doesn't mean a thing. And anyway, he has loads of guys and girls trailing after him. There's no sense her thinking she's special, just because he thinks she's _kind_.

She follows him to a table. He seems to have chosen one unnecessarily far away, she notes. It's tucked behind a couple of stacks of books, well out of earshot of Madame Pince.

"Why are we all the way back here?" She asks in a stage whisper, as she sits down.

"So we can talk." He says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Talk?"

"I'm quizzing you on History of Magic." He informs her smartly. "What? You didn't have other homework to do, right? Too bad."

She did have other homework, as it happens. There's a Potions essay she really wants to smash. But a History of Magic tutoring session does sound like it could be worthwhile.

She therefore nods, and starts getting her History of Magic notes from her satchel. But Bellamy sees what she's doing, and stops her with a distractingly warm hand on her arm.

"Woah, Princess. What are you doing?"

"Getting my notes."

"Nope. We're using my notes today." With that, he opens his bag, and gets out the strangest bundle of little rainbow coloured cards.

"What are those?" Clarke asks, intrigued.

Suddenly Bellamy drops his eyes, apparently self-conscious. "Flashcards. A Muggle thing. But they work really well for notes and revision." He says defensively.

Clarke rushes to put him at his ease. "That sounds good. I hate how outdated Muggle Studies is, you know? They never teach us anything useful about real Muggle life. It's all political history and how to change a lightbulb."

"Like anyone needs three weeks of lessons on how to change a lightbulb." Bellamy agrees easily.

"Exactly."

They settle down to study, then. Bellamy quizzes her about History of Magic, then she helps him make some Potions flashcards. It's _nice_ , in a warm and companionable way that could be rather dangerous, Clarke thinks.

In fact, she's almost at the point of saying she'd take on a falling gargoyle if it meant more time watching Bellamy's intoxicating smile.

…...

They might be friends. It's not really clear to Clarke. They seem to keep bumping into each other in hallways and on the way to the library more often than can possibly be coincidence. And yet she's not convinced that they're really seeking each other out – it just seems to happen.

Until one day he _does_ seek her out. One morning in Potions, he just strides through the door and sits smartly on the stool at her side.

"What are you doing?" She asks, flustered and almost annoyed.

"Sitting down." He offers, smirking.

She lets that settle for a moment. She gazes across the room, at Lily Potter, who seems to be shooting them strange looks. She frowns deeply, and wonders how to ask her next question without sounding insensitive.

Screw it. When has she ever cared about being insensitive to Bellamy Blake before now?

"Why are you sitting _here_?"

"Because you're great at Potions." He says, as if it's as simple as that.

Huh. Well, then. She supposes that proves they're not really friends. They're still antagonists more than anything – just antagonists who occasionally offer first aid or help pass a tough class.

That's a totally normal concept, right?

…...

Clarke thinks nothing of it, when she receives a summons to help out at the hospital wing in the form of a neatly folded magical paper plane, one Saturday afternoon. Such things are not uncommon. Only last month, she ended up lending a hand when a bunch of foolish first years decided to break into the greenhouses for a dare and ended up covered in Bubotuber pus.

So it is that she abandons her homework and sets out for the hospital wing.

Things are surprisingly quiet when she arrives. Sure, there are more people here than normal – but not half of first year. There's a couple of girls in Quidditch robes with bloodied noses, and she wonders whether fists or Bludgers are to blame. There's a sixth year who seems to have sprouted tentacles, and a young boy sneezing urgently.

And then there's Bellamy Blake, shirt ripped open, scratches all over his annoyingly attractive chest.

"Clarke! Thanks for coming." Madame Pomfrey bustles over.

Clarke tears her eyes carefully away from Bellamy. "No problem. What can I help with?"

"That friend of yours has hurt himself _again_." Madame Pomfrey says, with a nod in Bellamy's direction. "Can you start with him? I'll get the tentacles. And whichever of us finishes first can fix those noses."

Right. Yes. Obviously she should start with Bellamy. She's an unqualified teenager on work experience – naturally she should be the one to deal with a few superficial scratches, rather than anything more serious.

Damn it, but why does she keep finding herself patching him up?

She gathers her courage and strides over there.

"Couldn't have hurt yourself at a less busy time?" She grumbles lightly.

He simply smirks. "And miss out on seeing you, Princess?"

She lets him have that one. She eases the tattered remains of his shirt out of the way, starts investigating the damage. Tries not to get too distracted by that chest more well-built than any fifth year should have any right to.

"What happened?" She asks, trying to sound more dispassionate than exasperated.

"I was flying with O. Helping her practice, you know? And the Whomping Willow took a swing at her so I – uh – intercepted."

"You mean you dived between the tree and your sister." She concludes. She's heard him talk about his sister a lot, but she wasn't aware he was quite this dedicated to her safety.

"I might have done." He concedes, eyes on the floor.

She shakes her head, begins patching him up. They're not serious wounds – just a lot of scratches and grazes, a few decent sized bruises. She doesn't think he's broken any ribs.

"Does it hurt to breathe?" She asks him.

"No." He swallows. "I wasn't going to come up here at all. Just a few stupid scratches. But O insisted. Think she felt guilty for me getting hurt."

Hmm. Yes. Clarke can see that.

"You're a very dedicated brother. She's lucky to have you." She observes carefully.

"I'm only her half brother." He says, in the tone of one who has been fretting about that for most of his life.

Clarke thinks it's the silliest thing she's ever heard, and she tells him so. She's always been brutally honest with Bellamy before, and she doesn't see any reason to change that now.

"That's stupid, Bellamy. Anyone can see you're _completely_ her brother in all the ways that matter. So what if you had a different parent? You're completely devoted to her."

He stills beneath her hands. She wonders if that's because she's pressed too hard on a bruise, or whether he was lying about the sore ribs.

But then she realises it's something totally different.

"Thanks, Clarke." He says, sounding rather choked. "That's really – thanks."

"Any time." She says, because patching him up is what she does. If sometimes there are emotional wounds as well as physical, who's counting?

She works in silence for just a few more seconds. This really isn't serious – she's wondering why Madame Pomfrey didn't want her to start with the nosebleeds. Aren't they more urgent?

Maybe Madame Pomfrey sees some logic here Clarke doesn't.

Before long, she is done, and Bellamy looks as good as new. That is to say, he looks really rather good indeed.

"You're fine." She announces, stepping back from him. "Go enjoy your afternoon. Maybe don't fly into any more Whomping Willows."

He grins. "Thanks for the advice, doc. Hey, you want to stop by the library later? I can help you out with that essay to say sorry for wasting your afternoon."

"You didn't _waste_ it. This is all good experience." She says, because that seems safer than saying she was glad to help her good friend.

But then his face falls, and she wonders whether she might have said the wrong thing after all.

She scrambles to fix her mistake. "Library sounds good. I don't think I'll be much longer here."

"Great."

He smirks at her a little, nods once, and then strides from the room, his tattered shirt wafting about his shoulders.

…...

The implausible staircase coincidences get worse – or maybe better. Clarke somehow doesn't feel the need to complain about them, these days. She's starting to quite like the way Bellamy keeps popping up next to her with a grin on his face.

They walk more places together, too, rather than just relying on the stupid dysfunctional castle to spit them out in front of each other. They wander to the library side by side, make light conversation on the way to lessons.

One time, Clarke gets stuck in one of those trick stairs and Bellamy hauls her cheerfully out again. She could swear that for the rest of the week there's a warm patch on her waist where he so briefly set his hands.

…...

Given all these things, the invitation shouldn't come as a surprise. And yet it does. Clarke doesn't think of herself as a person who is _fun_. That's probably because her peers have spent their lives telling her that she isn't. She's serious, disciplined, pragmatic, ambitious. None of those things are exactly synonymous with _fun_.

Bellamy is reviewing some of those Potions flashcards she made with him in the library when he drops the bombshell.

"Are you coming to the Quidditch match this Saturday?" He asks.

She shrugs. She doesn't often go to Quidditch matches, but this is Slytherin against Gryffindor, so her roommate Emori is playing. Also Bellamy's playing – that too.

"Haven't really decided." She says honestly.

"You should. It'd be cool to have you watch us flatten Slytherin." He says, smirking. "And also – there's a party in our common room afterwards. You should come."

She starts. That's an invitation to a party. Definitely. She was here – she heard it happen.

"You want me to come to the Gryffindor party?" She repeats carefully.

"Yeah. It'll be cool. No need to bring anything – Fred's already got the drinks."

Yeah, the drinking arrangements weren't really what she was asking about. They are not a source of confusion to her – she knows Fred Weasley has already got the drinks. She doesn't actually live under a rock. She's more curious about, you know, _why the hell Bellamy is inviting her to a party_.

"Cool." She says lightly, because if he can overuse that word, she can too, damn it.

"You're in?"

"I'm in." She agrees.

Then they get back to studying their flashcards in silence, and to pretending that they are not both grinning from ear to ear.

…...

Clarke endures the Quidditch match. It wasn't clear to her whether attending the match was a prerequisite of her party invitation. But she supposes it'll be nice to support Emori, and nice to laugh at Murphy staring at Emori.

It's a bit stressful, though. Every time Bellamy dodges a Bludger she feels her heart leap into her throat, wonders whether she's going to have to fix him up all over again.

Gryffindor win. She doesn't much follow the game play. She just knows that Rose scores a lot of goals, and Bellamy hits a lot of Bludgers, and Lily catches the snitch. And yeah, sure, the Slytherin in her is kind of disappointed. But she's only ever got truly competitive about things she is personally competing in, be it Transfiguration tests or wizard's chess. So she's not that bothered that a bunch of people she happens to share a common room with have been defeated.

When Murphy goes to meet up with Emori, Clarke slips away and tries to make her way discreetly to the Gryffindor party.

No one questions her on the stairs. No one stops her in the hallway. When she arrives at the portrait that guards the door, the lady in the picture rolls her eyes once then lets Clarke straight in.

So far, so smooth.

But then it all falls apart. It falls apart right inside the door. Because there, on the other side of the common room, Bellamy has his arm slung carelessly around Lily Potter's shoulders.

Clarke sees green. It's a completely stupid reaction – of course it is. Bellamy doesn't _owe_ her anything. They're former antagonists and now vague friends, and he invited her to a party. It's as simple as that. She has no right to be jealous that he's now leaning close to whisper in Lily's ear, that she's peering up at him in turn with that smirk she wears so well.

It just sucks, OK? Lily is beautiful, and confident, and a Gryffindor through and through. And she's beautiful in a willowy, almost _vulnerable_ sort of a way – not like robust Clarke, who has always had more mature curves than any other girl in the year.

She's on the point of fleeing and pretending this whole episode never happened when Rose corners her. And Clarke maybe has a little teeny bit of a crush on the fierce but kind Head Girl. Apart from anything else, she certainly hopes to grow up to be like her when she's a seventh year. So it is that she freezes and listens to what Rose has to say.

"Clarke. Hey. Didn't expect to see you here."

Clarke rolls her shoulders in a gesture she hopes looks casual, but fears looks awkward.

"It's good to see you, anyway. I'm all for Slytherin and Gryffindor mixing more." She says, with a nod over her shoulder at Scorpius, who seems to be chatting animatedly to a Weasley cousin.

"Yeah. Me too." Clarke says, although she's beginning to wish she'd never met a Gryffindor in her life.

"So how are you liking fifth year? Feeling ready for your OWLs? Bellamy tells me you're a whizz at Potions."

Clarke nods. She thanks Rose for the compliment. She tries to make awkward chat about Potions.

But really she's standing here thinking that her Potions partner is a disloyal ass. Also arrogant. And his smirking face is stupid.

She barely stays at the party three minutes. She's not sure Bellamy even notices she's there.

…...

She was right. He didn't notice she was there. She figures out as much on the way to Transfiguration the next Monday, when his staircase glides smoothly over to hers.

"Decided we're not good enough for you, huh?" He asks with bite.

"What do you mean?"

"That party. You said you'd be there, but I guess you just can't bear to hang out with so many Gryffindor muggle-borns and half -"

"It's not like that." She grinds out. "It's not like that at all."

"Then what is it like?" He challenges her, eyes flashing.

"I did show up, for your information. But I didn't feel very welcome." She tells him smartly.

They walk the rest of the way to Transfiguration in stiff silence.

…...

She avoids him for the rest of the week. She doesn't jump staircases, because she's not an idiot. But she does step neatly out of his way on a number of occasions, does sometimes take the long way round. It's not because she's an immature brat who can't cope with rejection. It's just that she needs a little space to process what's happened. That stupid party made her realise she'd gone and caught stupid _feelings_ for him, and she can't be doing with that.

So she needs some space alone to forget all about him.

Bellamy seems to give up on seeking her out, about three days in. He goes back to his old seat in Potions. He stops showing up at the library. He doesn't hop onto staircases to meet her any more – in fact, more than once, she sees him jumping a daredevil jump to get out of her way.

That's fine, she decides. It's _good_. She hopes he falls and breaks his stupidly beautiful nose.

If he breaks his nose, maybe Lily won't want him any more. And then maybe he'll realise who his real friends are, or who he's more genuinely romantically compatible with. He might realise that it's more important to be kind and sensible than _willowy_. He might -

No. She just hopes he breaks his stupid nose.

…...

The Christmas holidays fall at just the right time. Clarke goes home and exchanges carefully polite chat with her mother. She unwraps a couple of books about healing, sketches the snow that lies thick in the garden of Griffin Manor.

And she counts her lucky stars that she never did buy Bellamy some silly book about History of Magic for Christmas. That would have left her looking a real fool, now.

…...

Bellamy's wearing a new scar when Clarke sees him at the prefects meeting for the start of term. She tries not to stare, really she does. But he's got a long half-healed gash up his left forearm, and it's a tricky thing to ignore.

She does her best. She listens to Rose talk about prefect patrols, gathers that she will be paired with Bellamy this month. Just her luck. It was bound to happen eventually. She listens to Scorpius talk about setting a good example to the younger students – apparently house unity is the name of the game.

What a joke.

And when the meeting is over, Clarke finds herself calling out impulsively.

"Bellamy! Wait up."

He does. That's the miracle of it. He hovers on the threshold of the compartment, looks back at her over his shoulder.

"What is it, Princess?" The question sounds angry, hurt, and she doesn't like it.

She gathers her courage. "I just wanted to ask after your arm." She says, nodding at the scar.

He shrugs. "Had a bit of an accident. And we don't live anywhere near St Mungo's so I went to the muggle hospital."

She nods carefully. He's a muggle born, and muggle hospitals are perfectly competent. She mustn't give him any fuel to accuse her of being a blood purity snob again.

"That's cool. It seems like it's healing well. I just – you want me to speed things up a little?"

He frowns. "You offering to patch me up again, Princess?"

"That's what I do, isn't it?"

To his credit, he doesn't rise to that. He doesn't spit back at her, doesn't point out that it doesn't seem to be what she does, since that misbegotten party.

He just sticks his arm out towards her.

"Go for it. You like to practise, right?"

She nods. That's not why she's offering – she's offering because she hates the thought of Bellamy in pain. But she's not quite ready to admit that, yet. She hasn't managed to shove those feelings down and out of the way entirely, and she senses that saying such a thing could therefore be dangerous.

She works quickly, making use of her mother's special charm for faster healing. She watches the scar fade before her very eyes, well satisfied with a job well done.

And then she makes the mistake of looking up into Bellamy's eyes.

"Thanks, Princess." He mutters softly.

"Any time. Take care, Bellamy."

She runs away before she can ask him for a hug. Asking him for a hug would be _silly_ , she's pretty sure. They don't hug and never have. At their best all they ever did was chat cheerfully and help each other out. So she doesn't want to ask for a hug, because she's made it her life's work to avoid being ridiculous at all costs.

But damn it, she really does think he'd give good hugs.

…...

Their first patrol together is five days later.

It's going pretty well, Clarke thinks, considering the circumstances. They've managed to exchange a few stiff sentences – she asked after his arm, saw that there's barely a scar across his freckled skin, now. He asked after her Christmas holiday, and she wasn't sure how much to tell him so she erred on the side of caution and said it was _fine_.

And now they're walking the halls in heavy silence.

She almost sighs in relief when she hears the crashing noise coming from a nearby classroom. This sounds like a crisis – something to deal with. That's just what they need.

She sets off running in the direction of the sound, hears Bellamy hot on her heels. She skids into the room, just in time to see two of the castle's stone knights having a fight for no apparent reason.

Bellamy skitters to a halt behind her. The stone knights freeze. And then the door of the classroom slams soundly behind them.

She looks round, stunned. "What -" She is interrupted by the sound of the door locking.

Bellamy is closer to the door, so he spins and tries the handle. It doesn't move. He grabs his wand, starts muttering spells under his breath. Still nothing.

"Bellamy -"

He punches the door. He punches it _hard_ , in fact, but it does nothing. It sits there, motionless, locked, mocking them.

"We're locked in." He supplies – rather unnecessarily, Clarke thinks.

She sighs. "You know, sometimes I get the impression this stupid castle is forcing us to spend time together." She jokes tiredly.

To her surprise, Bellamy does not laugh. Rather he looks up and meets her eye, gaze heavy.

"That's exactly what I think." He agrees softly. "I think this _incredibly smart magical castle_ figured out how great we would be together. I think it realised we'd get on really well if we stopped taking the piss out of each other, and that we could do a great job of looking after each other and helping each other out. But as you seem to have decided you _completely disagree_ with that, I'm going to get us out of here." He concludes, rather more loudly.

She blinks, stunned. "You think we're good together?" She asks. In what way, exactly? Is he saying he misses being friends with her?

"I think we're _great_ together." He reiterates. "But that doesn't seem to matter to you, so let's get this damn door open."

She strides over there, stops him from punching the door again with a gentle hand on his forearm. His fist looks pretty red, she notes. She'll deal with that soon, just as soon as she's shared a rather urgent truth.

"It does matter to me. I'm sorry – I didn't -" She collects herself, tries for a little honesty. "You're right. We make a good team. Now will you let me fix your hand?"

"My hand's fine." He lies through his teeth.

"It's not fine." She bites back.

"Clarke -"

"Bellamy." She concludes, in a quelling tone.

He admits defeat. He holds his hand out towards her, and she cradles his fist in her fingers as she figures out the damage. Nothing broken, thank goodness. Just some substantial bruises blossoming over his knuckles.

She fixes the damage, but somehow she never does let go of his hand.

And then Bellamy starts talking again.

"The thing that sucks the most is that I thought we were good together in – in a _real_ way." He mutters, eyes fixed on their joined hands. "I know that's stupid. We're just kids. We're only in fifth year. But you're not just someone I want to hang out with _now_ , or kiss at some Quidditch after party. I thought we were more... durable than that. Things like bringing out the best in each other or having the same sense of humour – those things never change. Things like that make me feel like we could be best friends ten years from now." He swallows loudly. "And we both know how best friends end up in wizarding Britain."

She gasps. She knows what he's saying. It's not just that passing comment about kissing at Quidditch parties. His reference to what happens to best friends in their world is unmistakable. They both know countless stories of best friends turned married couples – the Minister for Magic herself has been happily married to her childhood best friend for two decades.

But there's one thing that's still bothering her.

"So, what – I'm being held in reserve? You're going to snog Lily for now and then hold out hope that we're best friends in ten years' time?" She asks, sharp.

He looks puzzled, and over half way to angry. "Snog Lily? God, why would I do that? It'd be like snogging my own sister." He sounds positively revolted at the idea.

"But at the party? You were -"

"I was what, Clarke? _Hugging_ her? Like close friends might after winning a Quidditch match? Yelling in her ear so she could hear me over the music? For a bright witch, you can be incredibly slow sometimes. Why do you think I'm standing locked in a classroom telling you I have this stupid dream of marrying you one day?" He cries, ripping his hand from her grasp.

Huh. She figures there's only one possible response to that.

She chases his hand, catches at it as he tries to turn away. She tugs him back towards her, reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair.

And then she gets up on tiptoes and kisses him.

It's a good kiss – at least, she thinks it is. She doesn't have the most experience in the world. She experimented a little with Raven once, because they both wanted to learn what they were doing. And Fred Weasley kissed her once, but she's pretty sure that was a dare.

Bellamy seems to think it's a good kiss, too. She gets that sense from the way he grasps her hips, pulls her snug against him, and holds her tight. And also from the way he keeps it going on for really quite a long time – polite and almost _tentative_ , but persistent.

When at last they pull away at the lips, he keeps hold of her body, hugging her close.

"The answer's yes, by the way." She murmurs against his chest.

"Yes?" He prompts.

"Yes to – to whatever this is, first. Dating or whatever. I think maybe we should get to know each other better before I say yes to that proposal."

He laughs, a rich, warm sound. "Yeah. Sorry. I know all you pure bloods get engaged insanely young, but I was more talking... hypothetically."

She smiles into his neck. She thinks their odds of making it that far are looking pretty good, actually.

She pulls away eventually. It seems best. They have a patrol to finish, after all. And she wants to get to know Bellamy a bit better before they take things any further than kissing – or at least, she wants to get to know _this_ side of him. The boyfriend. She already knows that he makes the greatest flashcards and is foolishly brave and heartbreakingly kind.

The door is unlocked now. Huh. That figures. Maybe this castle isn't so stupid after all.

"I blame Fred." Bellamy says conversationally as they head down the hallways, hand in hand. "That was when I started seeing you differently. When he kissed you for that dare and I realised I was jealous."

She grins. "I wonder how the castle figured that out."

Bellamy laughs stiffly. "Might have something to do with the fact I went into the Room of Requirement and punched things for an hour straight."

She squeezes his hand, reaches up to press a kiss to his cheek. Maybe Hogwarts isn't so stupid after all. But it's got nothing on the brilliance of Bellamy Blake.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
